


Honeymoon Suite

by entanglednow



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alcohol, Aliens, Aliens Make Them Do It, F/M, M/M, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which aliens are complicated and everyone is drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeymoon Suite

After they save the Atrevian City from the burrowing, insect-faced things, they stick around for the party. Amy gets the feeling the Doctor doesn't stick around for a lot of parties. She thinks maybe she's going to make that their thing. They'll stay around for the parties and the parades and the alien confetti. Though possibly the next time there'll be less alcohol. Less weird, purple and blue alien alcohol which is, at this very moment, dissolving her internal organs.

Probably her brain too.

They did eventually make their way back to their presidential? emperoridential? suite. Whichever it is, it's a very, very nice room.

Rory's managed to hang onto a couple of the alien's shiny delicate bottles of fermented _something_. He's sitting on the floor next to her, possibly because he missed the bed, rather than a genuine desire to be sat on the floor. Amy doesn't think it matters much though, since the floor's very comfortable, and it has a lot of cushions on it. She's been with the Doctor long enough to wonder if she should find that sinister. The Doctor is the sort of person that can make an over-abundance of cushions sinister. She should probably find that more disturbing.

"There are a lot of cushions," she decides. She pokes a couple for good measure, lifts a few up to make sure nothing's hiding underneath them.

"I'd imagine you have to think carefully about the decor when you have six legs," the Doctor says sensibly. "It's probably a lot of work to get up again if you fall down, maybe you want the floor to be comfortable. Maybe the floor's too far away and they want a soft landing. They are very tall, like giraffes, fabulous creatures, giraffes."

"Are you drunk?" Amy asks him, he's still upright but he certainly sounds drunk. His rambling has a frantic, slurred edge to it she's never heard before.

"Of course not, it doesn't affect me at all, in the slightest, iron constitution," the Doctor insists. He's managed to acquire a bottle of something from one of the smiley aliens downstairs too. Which he eyeballs suspiciously. Possibly just in case.

Amy very carefully reaches up and takes the bottle from him before he walks it off their balcony and ends up in a bush. Then she hands the bottle to Rory, who peers in the neck and then takes a swallow.

"This tastes like ginger beer." He sounds confused.

Amy's immediately curious enough to swipe the thing back off him. He's right, it does tastes like ginger beer.

There's a thud beside them both and the Doctor's looking very confused a foot away. She's fairly sure he was going for the bed and missed. There's a purple scarf thing wound round his neck and Amy has no idea where he got that from, where he _always_ manages to get things from, the moment she looks away.

"I thought you said you couldn’t get drunk," Amy says. Because it wouldn't be the first time he's extended the truth so far it snapped back in his face.

The Doctor holds up another bottle he discovered under one of the cushions. "These are very chemically surprising."

"So, you're not drunk, you're just surprised?" Rory offers.

"I am _very_ surprised," the Doctor agrees with a nod. He's trying to stop his new purple scarf from absorbing excess alcohol by wrapping it round one of his arms.

"No," Amy insists unravelling it from around his neck and dragging it away. "No stealing accessories from other people's wardrobes."

"I liked that," The Doctor protests.

"No, you didn't. It's a compulsion you have, you're a clothing kleptomaniac, don't think I haven't seen that monstrosity of a wardrobe on the Tardis."

The Doctor frowns. "I have moods, it's only sensible to have clothes that go with all my moods. I may want to make some sort of statement in the near-future that I'll be unable to make without presenting exactly the right sort of image. We may be in peril, mortal peril, and we'll all be killed for want of a scarf that exact shade of lilac."

"My God, you are drunk," Amy decides.

"Possibly," the Doctor concedes, then reaches out. "Give me back my scarf."

Amy draws it back out of reach and shakes her head.

"Maybe it belongs to someone's wife," Rory offers. Because he clearly feels like he should be involved in the conversation.

"See, yes, I'm a wife!" Amy says loudly, possibly too loudly. "And I'd be very annoyed if some alien came by and started randomly stealing my clothes."

"You're my wife," Rory adds. Like Amy might have forgotten, or in case someone said otherwise.

"Oh! Technically mine as well now," the Doctor offers, then points at Rory. "Also, you're now my wife too, I think. It's complicated with only two sexes."

"Excuse me?" Amy offers from where she absolutely hadn't been stuffing a purple scarf under a pile of cushions.

The Doctor lifts a finger. "Well technically they have six, though some of them can change if the mood strikes them -"

"No, the wife part," Amy says and rolls enough to glare at him through her hair.

"Oh, that, yes, ceremony, flowers, singing, confetti, they thought we made a lovely trio."

"Why am I the wife?" Rory says, in that irritated way he has when he chooses the wrong part of a sentence to object to. "Why can't you be the wife?"

"Who, me? No, that would never work." The Doctor seems to think that's a good enough explanation. He's investigating the very small bottles arranged in a glass case by the bed.

"Is that an alien mini bar?" Amy asks.

"What? You think you're the only species allowed to have mini bars. Mini bars are good, mini bars are perfectly sensible." The Doctor picks one at random, drinks it and then pulls a face. "Oh that's disgusting."

Amy steals a handful out of his lap, before he manages to inhale them all. Before remembering there was something very important they'd been discussing a second ago.

"You let them marry us without protesting?"

"I didn't think it would matter much. Their marriages don't last very long. One season that's about twenty two days by your calendar. That's barely long enough to work up to a really good argument." The bottles keep rolling out of his lap, which he seems completely unable to stop in his present state.

Amy hits him with a cushion.

"Ow."

"In the future you're going to tell us when we accidentally miss the fact that we're guests at our own wedding," she says angrily.

He tries to flatten his hair back into it's pre-cushion-impact state and Amy's tempted to whack him again.

"No, this is a thingamajig, comes after a wedding," the Doctor says.

"Honeymoon," Rory says. He draws the word out, like he suddenly finds it fascinating.

"That's the one."

"They gave us the honeymoon suite, didn't they?" Amy says darkly. "We're in the honeymoon suite getting very drunk, after our wedding." Amy seriously considers hitting him with another cushion.

"We did save the city, it would have been incredibly rude to refuse the party."

"Wedding," Amy corrects.

"Same thing on this planet, really," the Doctor offers.

She drops the cushion and lays on it. "So what happens now?"

"Well, I'm not sure I know how to consummate an Atrevian wedding, at least not without an extra two feet of spine and a tail."

Rory seems to have finally managed to follow the thread of the conversation.

"There will be no consummating," he says firmly. "Amy's my wife."

"She's my wife too," the Doctor insists.

Amy points at him. "Not helping. And I never agreed to be your wife."

"You said you wanted a party," he protests, as if this is somehow her fault.

"Oh no, this isn't going to be something you pin on me!" Amy wobbles to her knees and then realises something. You can only drink so much alcohol before your body insists on getting rid of some of it.

She glares at him. "Hold that thought, I have to pee."

Amy sets a hand on one of each of their shoulders and shoves herself upright. Then she wanders off unsteadily through the cushions towards the bathroom. It takes a good five minutes of staring at the set-up before she works out how this is going to go. Aliens with six legs, tails and six different sets of genitalia have understandably different bathroom rules than she's used to. Always an adventure.

When she gets back they're arguing, loudly. Rory hugging his alcohol protectively while the Doctor does his best to fling droplets of his all over the room in his bid to explain something very fast, in-between Rory's scowling and occasional snapped out protest.

Amy judges the chances of Rory hitting the Doctor in the face with a cushion as being fairly good. Rory's far more inclined to hit people with cushions since the world nearly ended.

She stomps back over to them with as much drunken authority as she can manage.

"Right, I don't care what you two are fighting about," she snaps.

She tangles her hands in the hair at the back of both their heads.

"Kiss and make up," Amy insists. She tightens her fingers until they both make unattractive girly noises.

"Ow."

"Ow."

"I don't want to kiss him," the Doctor insists.

"Well I want to kiss you even less," Rory says immediately.

"You're married now, it's in the rules," Amy says firmly.

"I think I've changed my mind," the Doctor says. There's a second of tension, as if he's testing whether she'll let him twist away. Amy makes certain he knows that she will absolutely not.

"Too late," she says. "Now do it, or I shall be cross."

They both eyeball her sideways.

"Fine," Rory says, with more than a hint of irritated petulance and reaches out for the Doctor's narrow jaw, which is still trying its damnedest to talk about something. Or protest something, or just be smarter than everyone else.

He makes a muffled noise when Rory makes than impossible.

The kiss is sort of wonky and a bit messy and Rory's need to get it over with as quickly as possible makes it a little more...open than he might have liked.

Amy doesn't let them go until she's satisfied.

Rory pulls a face.

The one the Doctor pulls is worse.

"He tastes like peppermint schnapps, it's revolting," the Doctor says peevishly.

Rory huffs. "Well you taste like an alien."

"How do you know what an alien tastes like, have you ever kissed one?"

"Well now I have," Rory says, unhappily.

"Quiet, both of you, or I'll take us all to marriage counselling." Amy makes a noise like she was clearly an idiot for marrying either of them and flops back down into the cushions. She lets them continue sniping at each other over a big bottle of something purple. While she works on the mini bottles stashed under the Doctor's jacket.

Rory falls asleep before the alcohol runs out, snoring quietly in a way Amy can't help but find anything other than ridiculously adorable.

The Doctor falls asleep in the middle of a sentence. His bottle rolls across the floor with a long, rolling clonky sort of noise.

Amy tries to drink the little bottle that tastes like peppermint schnapps while laying down and ends up with most of it on her shirt. She's going to smell fantastic tomorrow morning.

The Doctor makes a noise like he's disapproving of something in his sleep.

Rory makes a vaguely soothing noise into his hair and he goes quiet again.

Amy decides there's no way this can possibly end badly.


End file.
